- Xenogears belongs to Squaresoft. This story is for entertainment only and completely unedited. Yay. -


"Lady Marguerite, please come inside. You'll catch your death out there."

The stars were diamonds in the sky, and the moon a paper-thin crescent that left the night mostly dark. The copper rooftops of the Nisan capitol did not reflect its light as they usually did. Only a few glinted around the edges, the taller eaves, here and there a bronzed weathervane that had not yet been tarnished by the winter rains. The night was alive under the veil of darkness, whispering as wind sifted through the leaves of trees and bushes, gurgling as the fountains, in every courtyard and square, spilled their water ceaselessly. There were even voices now and again, as men and women alike returned home from wherever they had spent their days. Ever a city of pilgrims, Nisan was never empty and quiet, even on the deepest, coldest of nights.

It was beautiful, peaceful. She turned to glance over her shoulder toward the glass doors spilling warm candlelight onto the balcony, and the silhoette of the maid that had bent her frame around the open door to call to her. "I'll be in soon. Go ahead and go to sleep. Don't wait for me."

The other girl hesitated, the door throwing a glint of light as it closed just a little bit more. "But... Miss Margie," her timid voice came again, this time trying for more familiararity, lilted with an islander accent. "There is ice in the fountains outside. It's too cold to be healthy. If you fall sick, the wedding-"

"No..." Margie interrupted the girl reluctantly, turning her back on the view to face her maid. "I'll be okay, promise. I'm used to this, remember? It's cold compared to the islands, maybe, but this isn't too bad." Billy certainly took exception to the weather, and fall had only just started. She couldn't wait to see his reaction to winter.

When the girl still hesitated, she put on a big smile and waved her away. "Really, don't worry! Okay? I'll be fine."

Still not entirely convinced by what could be seen of her expression, the maid nevertheless nodded slowly and backed inside, pulling the door shut with a click. Margie kept the smile plastered on her face until the girl turned around and made her way out of the bedroom, leaving the lamps lit and the door open a crack.

The smile slipped away, back to its hiding place, and Margie turned back to the city with a sigh, leaning again on the cold stone rail.

Two years had not changed the city a bit. It was in better repair now, the citizens walking the streets were once again more human than not, though now and then she came across victims of Krelian's nanomachine plague that had not been able to fully heal, even under Melchoir's guidence. She admired that man. Shitan too, though it was hard not to be a little wary of him these days, even with Solaris dead and gone.

It was so hard, sometimes, to look into those hideous, nearly-human faces and smile, or give her blessing, and speak to them like there was nothing out of the ordinary. They were all perfectly normal people. The other day she had met a man with fins growing out of his temples and a tentacle for a nose, but when they spoke, his words were all about his artwork, and the commission he had received from the Fatima palace for one of his fountains. A normal man, an artisan who would make god weep with the work his hands brought forth into the world, and yet he would never be healed. No one would ever be able to look at him and simply let their gazes pass on, unconcerned, as if he looked as normal as he acted.

She had many shortcomings as a Holy Mother. That was only one of them, but it was the one she hated the most. /What would Sophia have done?/ she sometimes asked herself. All she had to do was think back to the war when this plague had first shaken the foundations of the world; Sophia had taken them in her arms and wept with them, offered her own blood to ease their pain, and walked among the shanty towns surrounding Nisan to offer her smile to the faithful that had come to be healed.

Sophia, Elly, it didn't matter. There had long ago ceased to be a difference, at least to Margie's mind. When she looked at her friend's face, it was the face in the portrait, no longer the person she had known before.

Sophia would never fail the people. Sophia should be in the church now, leading prayers and giving blessings instead of Marguerite Fatima. She had refused to take up the mantle again, and even left Nisan not long after the war ended, to help people rebuild elsewhere. Her legacy followed no matter where she went, and many of the pilgrims left with her despite her protests.

She had returned for the wedding. Everyone was back, now: Fei, Billy, Shitan and his family. Midori had grown up so fast, just in two years! She still rarely spoke, and her eyes still had that discomfiting, knowing look to them, but she was always polite. Rico was visiting, staying in /her/ house as a matter of fact, which everyone had grumbled about good-naturedly - he was the only one who didn't have to stay at the inn. And Emeralda - she had Elly's eyes, but there was still yet a difference between them. That was a relief.

They were all asleep now, and Margie was up alone. The evening really wasn't very cold but she shivered anyway and hugged her arms closer to her chest, turning her eyes away from the city to the flowering vines curled around the veranda, up and over, to hang down over her view. The blossoms were closed against the night chill, only pale buds against the dark, but the leaves had a bit of a shine to them, still wet from the day's rain. The scent of gardenia and pine was still heavy on the air, and the odd smell of wet cobblestones and slick marble. She had almost slipped coming out onto the balcony, but her bare feet had steady purchase on the floor now. She leaned more heavily on the railing and swept her feet over the marble, let them slide in circles.

Her mother had played this game with her long ago. See who could make circles the fastest, who could make their skirts swirl higher. It was like the game of spinning around to see who would get dizzy first, only it didn't involve falling.

They were very much alike, Agnes said. Her mother, too, had married like this, given her life over to a friend instead of a lover. But her mother, she was also told, had not griped about it so much, and her father had been far kinder about it than Bart was. They were better people, she was inclined to think, even if Agnes didn't say it. The last generation had been more grown up, more conscious of the importance of their roles in society, and just more gracious about everything.

It could have been upbringing. Their parents had grown up in a royal household. She and Bart had grown up in the desert sands, on the Yggdrasil, and everywhere /but/ the proper places. Margie knew more about pirates than she did about the Nisan sisterhood.

Bart was a good man, for all of that. Two years had seen him change quite a bit, if not completely. He was still one to make rash decisions and loud declarations, especially if Billy's father got him drunk, but he was beginning, ever so slowly, to resemble Sigurd. He was kinder, more tolerant now of this wedding. He had to be, really; it would be upon them once the sun rose, and they would no longer be Bart and Margie, but Bartolomei and Marguerite Fatima, pillars of the old, glorious regime.

He didn't want to be king, but he upheld the responsibility anyway, despite the changes to Aveh's government. Margie found herself sympathizing with him, and wishing again that Elly would simply take her place, as everyone wanted to, so she could be free of their high expectations.

Margie knew, more than any Mother before her, how very unlike Sophia she was. And her's was the wish that was abandoned, by God and the Great Mother both.

She pulled her feet together again and straightened, reaching up to finger a vine hanging at the corner of her vision. Droplets of water wet her fingers. She released it and held her hand up to examine it, the moonlight tinting the edges, and the candlelight from her room casting it in gold.

Like tears, the droplets trickled down over her fingers and gathered in the palm of her hand. She let it fall back to her side with a sigh and, with a last look thrown out to the night-shrouded city, she turned and padded toward the door, thoughts finally drifting to sleep.

Her wedding was tomorrow. It would be best, for once, to live up to expectations.


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Notes:

Never one to write much about the Fatimas, I found this story to be quite a surprise. The idea that inspired it was an image of Margie two years after the game on a dark balcony, contemplating her reluctance to get married. It turned into something quite different.

Unfortunately, I'm not very good at writing Margie. I never tried, before. Now I have.

I used 'Bartolomei' because Mrs. Saga expressed a liking to that in an old message on the Yggdrasil bored a long time ago. That was the original choice of spelling - a Spanish version, I think, but I could be wrong. Doesn't really matter, I suppose, since this is only a fanfic and I don't exactly set trends by what I write.

Someday I might edit this. Right now, I'm not inclined to do so.